“It is a daring scheme, but why should I not accomplish it?” he argues, clinching his hands tightly together. “John Dinsmore is dead; why should not I, with the aid of the doctor at Newport, who would sell his very soul for gold, gain possession of the important papers which were upon his person—and—pass myself off for Dinsmore—gain possession of the fortune—turn it into cash—and then—leave this country forever? There would be but one thing to fear—and that is—coming across any of the fellow’s former friends—well I certainly am clever enough to keep out of their way. It is a bold stroke for a fortune, but none but the most daring would ever attempt it—I have nothing to lose and everything to gain; yes, by the eternal! I’ll risk it.”
He did not like the idea of the girl thrown into the breach, but if he could not gain possession of the fortune without wedding her—the horrible, elfish creature he had encountered—why, wed her he would—and desert her later.
When the landlord returned, he found his guest still pacing restlessly up and down the floor. As he approached, the young man turned to him, saying, hoarsely:
“Landlord, I have a little secret to confide to you; I had thought of not telling it until—well, until I return to Greenville some few days later—but, I fancy that you suspect the truth, and I might as well confess it to you: I am John Dinsmore, the heir of Blackheath Hall.”
“Well, well! can it be possible, sir!” cried the landlord, beaming all over with delight; “to tell you the truth, that thought did flash over me when you first came in, inasmuch as they were expecting the heir would come here as soon as he learned the terms of his uncle’s will. Welcome to Greenville, Mr. Dinsmore, and long and many a year may you dwell among us. If you hadn’t bound me so to secrecy, how I should have liked to have told my wife and daughter that you were here.”
“Not just yet,” warned the stranger; “wait until I return from New Orleans, which will be two days hence, and then you can spread it about to your heart’s content, my good sir.”
The old landlord was looking into the handsome, dissipated face with eager scrutiny.
“You do not resemble your uncle, George Dinsmore, whom I remember well,” he said, thoughtfully, “and you have changed much since the time when I saw you here before, a little lad.”
CHAPTER XIII.
LUCK SMILES.
“A philosopher tells us that free from all care